


If God Compel

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-05
Updated: 2007-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: It isn't enough. Coda to 2.10.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: If God Compel ([source](http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=190))  
Author: Impertinence  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating: Adult  
Summary: It isn't enough.  
Notes: Coda to 2.10, which means **spoilers.** By clicking on the cut you acknowledge that you're old enough to read adult material.  
  
  
  
  
They don’t talk after they find the ring; they get into the car, drive to a motel, don’t say a damned thing the whole time.  
  
In a way that’s normal. They don’t need to talk as much anymore; not after more than a year now of hunting, killing, Sam with his grief and Dean with…well. Sam can’t pretend to know.  
  
Dean’s shoulders are hunched while he drives, and he’s saying, _I’m worried._  
  
Sam darts sidelong glances at him, reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder, the back of his neck, fingers stroking soothingly. _It’s okay. We’ll win this, we will._  
  
No talk of destiny, of death.  
  
When they pull into the parking spot at the motel, Sam half expects Dean to turn to him; instead, Dean kills the engine and sits, staring straight ahead.  
  
In the end it’s Sam who turns and reaches out. It always is.  
  
A desperate kiss, slick tongue and chapped lips and sharp teeth, hands clutching, tearing.  
  
Sam shoves Dean away, looks at him. His face is twisted in an almost-unreadable mask. What Sam sees there makes him want to yell, beat his fists bloody against the cold metal of their home.  
  
Pain, doubt, but most of all that feeling of _alone._ Loneliness…can’t even begin to cover the isolation he sees in Dean’s face.   
  
So he opens the door, gets out, slams it shut and goes around to the other side. Dean’s standing there, his back to the car, shoulders hunched. Sam knows he’s seen too much; Dean’s trying to hide now.  
  
“Not gonna work,” he snarls out loud, and slams Dean against the body of the car.  
  
Dean’s arms come up around him immediately, clutching Sam so close that the lines between their bodies stop mattering, close enough that heat and breath mingle, that every muscle Dean tenses is felt by Sam.  
  
It’s hard, and it’s painful, and it’s _good._  
  
They don’t kiss. Sam thinks, dimly, that they should; but instead they stare at one another, their noses almost touching, breath hitching in the cold air.  
  
“I can’t,” Dean says, and Sam steps away.  
  
Their fingers entwine. Sam leads Dean inside.  
  
||  
  
  
He’s thought about it. Made plans.  
  
Nothing concrete, but then he doesn’t need concrete. Doesn’t even need paper. He knows Sammy inside and out, and it’s way too easy to change _Sam’ll guard my back, he’s best at scouting out stuff_ to _Sam looks ahead too much, he won’t see an attack coming from behind._  
  
Too easy, but then, it always has been.  
  
It was easy, when Dad taught him how to shoot a gun. Sight, aim, pull the trigger, bust the can. Good job, Dean-o. Good job.   
  
Now a bird, now a rabbit, now a ghost. A man, maybe, someday, because evil isn’t restricted to the not-quite-there.  
  
Not anymore.  
  
The guy was possessed when Dean shot him, and Dean still feels no remorse. And he wonders, when the time comes—when Sam’s too far gone, killing things because the demon tells him to—will it be that easy? Good of the world, all that shit, protect and love and _end?_  
  
He tells himself it can’t be; tells himself it _won’t_ be. His destiny might be to kill Sam, but Dean’s always had a fuck-destiny kind of attitude, and that’s not gonna change. Ever.  
  
They move over the bed, bruising touches belying the desperate kisses, the whispered words. _You’re alive so glad would’ve died you came close please I love you,_ on and on, almost more important than Sam’s hand on Dean’s cock, Dean’s hands sliding down Sam’s ass.  
  
Almost.  
  
“God, Dean,” Sam gasps when Dean latches onto Sam’s neck, sucking and biting. “Slow down a little, willya?”  
  
“You were gonna die,” Dean says, moving up to Sam’s ear, his temple, twisting silky strands of hair in his fingers. “He was gonna blow you to bits, Sammy, and I. I couldn’t—“  
  
“Hey,” Sam says, and he realizes that he’s shaking. “You did what you could, Dean. Told me there was a problem, helped me out. You did what you could.”  
  
“Almost got you killed.” Cupping Sam’s face, feeling like a goddamned girl and not caring because, fuck, Sam’s still _here_ and a few hours ago Dean thought for sure he wouldn’t be.  
  
“Saved my life, too, or did Gordon just happen to miss?” And Sam smiles bravely, like he doesn’t know that Gordon’ll be gunning for their blood until one of them crosses a line that can’t be stepped back over, like he doesn’t think Dean won’t kill him ifwhen the time comes.  
  
Dean pulls him down, like a wiggly human blanket. Pulls him down and holds him close. Holds _on._  
  
Sam shudders, slides a hand down Dean’s torso until his fingers are brushing against Dean’s ass. “Can I,” he begins, but Dean pushes against him—needing something, anything, to hold onto.  
  
If, when, he kills Sam, he wants this reminder. Every memory he can have, every sensation he can hold on to.   
  
Sam enters him slowly, carefully, and Dean grunts in frustration and pushes back. Gentleness—not now, when the lines that make up the world are being erased, redrawn.  
  
Not when, in the back pocket of the jeans lying on the floor, is a crumpled-up piece of paper torn from the back of Dad’s journal, a paper with detailed plans on how to neutralize both his sons.  
  
Sam’s eyes widen and he thrusts harder, fists clenching in the sheets, sweating. The bedside lamp is still on, and the flickering shadows it throws make Sam’s body stutter in and out, make his eyes glow.  
  
Dean closes his own eyes. He doesn’t want to see this, ever. But he sees it, has seen it since Dad gave him a secret he should’ve died keeping.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
A low, guttural moan, accompanied by a thrust that makes Dean jerk his hips almost involuntarily.  
  
“Dean, open your eyes.”  
  
It’s Sammy, the soft coaxing tone that reminds Dean of the times he’s proven, over and over, what he tells himself, Sam, random strangers.  
  
_You’d do anything for your brother?  
  
Yeah, I would._  
  
He opens his eyes and sees him—Sam. Sam who might be a threat, Sam who might have to be _eliminated._  
  
“No,” Sam says, and for a second Dean thinks he’s said it out loud. _No._  
  
“You said it yourself,” Sam says, the set of his jaw stubborn, like this is just another little factoid they’ll discover if they research enough. “I. Will. Be. Fine.”  
  
Each word accompanied by a thrust, and then Sam’s dotting kisses over Dean’s face.  
  
Dean can’t stop himself from laughing. “I’m a liar, Sammy. You oughta know that by now.”  
  
Sam shakes his head—denial, agreement, doesn’t matter. He squeezes Dean’s dick and Dean gasps, thoughts lost to the toogoodgodsogood rush that comes with being here, being inside or around Sam. _Sam._ Always, _always_ Sam.  
  
“God,” he says, a plea to the closed-off sky, and then he’s coming.  
  
They lie together in the dark afterwards, Sam’s arms encircling Dean’s. Sam sleeps soundly, but Dean’s eyes are wide and alert.  
  
Destiny’s a load of bull, and he knows it. But he also knows about Mordechai, and how if you believe in something hard enough, it doesn’t matter what the truth is. And something like the Demon….all it has is belief, impossibly old and strong.  
  
Praying is begging, but Dean does it anyway.   
  
||


End file.
